


Don't Look Back in Anger

by orphan_account



Series: Worldweavers One-shots and Snippets [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, Worldweavers - Multiverse
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Claire in Barrister Mode, Developing Friendships, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Sex, London, M/M, Major Character Injury, Modern Era, Multi, Post-Canon, Summer, Time Skips, Vanimórë wasn't meant to be in this, discussions of polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-08 04:29:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21470083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: On a hot summer's day in 2015, Claire decides it's time to get in touch with an old acquaintance, but things don't quite go as she expects.
Relationships: Anthony Wyatt-Jones (OMC) & Claire James (OFC), Claire James (OFC)/Sören Sigurdsson (OMC), Ereinion Gil-galad & Claire James (OFC), Ereinion Gil-galad & Original Female Character, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Original Female Character & Original Male Character, Sören Sigurdsson (OMC)/Anthony Wyatt-Jones (OMC)
Series: Worldweavers One-shots and Snippets [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2002375
Comments: 12
Kudos: 14





	Don't Look Back in Anger

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Stepping On the Pieces of My Broken Shell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21416557) by [verhalen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verhalen/pseuds/verhalen). 

** _October 2005_ **

“Fuck. Bugger. Shit.”

Pain slid under her nail like a hot pen-knife. Claire hissed, dropped the lighter, and put her thumb in her mouth.

_“Well, if you will smoke...”_ chided her grandmother's voice in her head – and then came another, low, male, musical, like an echo of a dream. _“You do know those will ruin your voice?”_

Shadows glimpsed through fog...

The college door behind her creaked open. Claire jumped and looked around, and her heart sank as Anthony Wyatt-Jones loped down the steps. His black hair was combed and gelled; his expensive brogues _thocked_ against the stonework, and he looked effortlessly elegant in his jeans and cashmere jumper. His smile was pleasant as he passed her, but his eyes were cool and distant, his mind already elsewhere. Her cheeks burned. She bitterly envied his poise, his self-assurance. He was a few years older than her, she knew. Perhaps it was the extra life experience that allowed him that layer of detachment as he sat at the back of their study room – not lounging, not disdainful, never rude, but as though this were all a bit too easy. Those summer green eyes took in everything and everyone and seemed to stare back and say, “Yes, fine. But when does the real work start?”

He was so ready for this life. And here she was, still in her student clothes because she couldn't afford anything else, her thumb in her mouth and her lighter smashed on the ground – like a naughty schoolgirl caught smoking behind the portakabins.

His posse of wannabes greeted him with a cheer at the bottom of the stairs. He grinned as they slapped him on the back, and he raised an arm to fend off one of them as they tried to ruffle his hair. Claire crouched to pick up the remnants of her lighter, watching. It was all so controlled – almost stage-managed – like Anthony had them dancing on the end of a string, this pack of young lawyers-to-be, looking up to him as their alpha as though it were simply the natural order of things.

His eyes met hers. The corner of his mouth curled, and his head tilted. “What are your plans for the weekend, Claire James?”

Again with her full name. Fury shot through her like an oil-lashed fire. “I'm working.” _Like all of you should be, if you want to pass your bloody aptitude tests._

Anthony lifted his eyebrows. “Enjoy.”

_Fuck you._ “Yeah, you too.”

* * *

** _June 2015_ **

Claire whimpered as a cool gap opened up next to her skin. Her palm prickled. She felt the brush of Sören's beard against her forehead, and she pulled him down into a sleepy kiss. Their tongues met, teasing, tasting; she moaned against him, and he brushed her hair back from her face.

“I have to go, _elskan._” Another kiss. “You're coming for dinner tomorrow, ja?”

“Mm.” She flopped back onto her pillows. Sören looked exhausted already. Claire knew he wasn't a morning person, but early shifts were unavoidable as a junior surgeon in the NHS. “I love you.”

A sad little smile, a blown kiss. “I love you too.”

When he'd gone, she retrieved a pair of pyjamas and climbed back into bed. Her body glowed with the lazy, sated feeling she always felt after a night alone with him – though sharing him with Gil had its own magic. But there had been an undercurrent of sorrow and regret in their lovemaking last night – not regret in their passion for each other, but in Sören's longing for someone gone for almost two years.

_Anthony Wyatt fucking Jones._

She rubbed her face and sighed, allowing herself a smile at some of Gil's more creative nicknames for their lover's ex. _Arsehole Wanker-Jerk. Oh, Gil._

But there had been very little of the lawyer she remembered in the contrite, hopeful man who had approached her, Sören and Nicholas in their favourite café back in February. Even Anthony – the Shark of Lincoln's Inn, the great courtroom manipulator – couldn't have faked the wounded look in his eyes as Sören kissed first her, then Nicholas, as deeply and fiercely as though he were claiming them for his own. Then there were the things she'd found out about Anthony from Sören. The thoughtful weekends away. The handwritten love-notes. The unconditional acceptance and support when Sören disclosed that he'd been raped back in Iceland. Turning up at the hospital with coffee and hugs when Sören pulled a particularly long shift. Holding him all night when he'd lost a patient on the operating table. None of this sounded like the Anthony who had stalked the streets of Temple as though its very stones belonged to him, who had raised disbelieving eyebrows when she told him she'd landed a pupillage at Brick Court Chambers, who had mockingly called her by her full name every time they met.

Yesterday's revelation – that Anthony used to play the piano for Sören when they visited Anthony's family home in Blackheath – had shaken her view of her former classmate even more. She'd guessed something was wrong as soon as the languid, bluesy melody had drifted from the radio; Sören had stiffened in her arms, and she'd held him as he cried on the bed, stroking his curls, listening as he explained that this was the first piece Anthony ever played for him.

“He was so shy about it.” Tears stuck Sören's long lashes together in clumps. “And he was _good._ I don't mean he could have been a concert pianist, but it had heart, you know?”

“I know.” She kissed the damp salt tracks on his cheeks.

“And he showed _me._” He shook his head, puzzled hurt pooling in the brown eyes. “And then he threw away everything we had, our whole life together, for some quick fuck with a pretty boy he met on Grindr, and it still fucking hurts, because it makes no fucking _sense._”

_You're telling me._ Anthony being musical didn't surprise her all that much. She knew his background was languages, and the two often went hand in hand. What startled her – again – was the idea of Anthony showing vulnerability, and opening his soul to someone in that way. It was almost impossible to reconcile that person with the lacquered legal professional she'd known. And yet...and yet...

“Sören,” she murmured eventually, nuzzling his dark locks. “Are you sure it wouldn't be best for both of you to sit down and talk?”

“What's the point?” he sighed. “Nothing's changed. Anyway, I threw his card away. And I deleted his number months ago.”

Claire almost told him that she still had the business card tucked into her purse – but the time to mention that had been back in March, and she'd hesitated, not quite sure what to do for the best – and then there had been the endless weeks of worry over Theo, and the fallout from that, and one thing and another had driven it from her mind. It seemed almost deceitful to produce it now. “You could phone his chambers; the number would be online. Or what about his parents? You know where they live, his mother would take a message...”

“No.”

She sighed. Whatever she decided to do, tonight was not the night for it. “Alright.” _But don't think you've heard the last of this, Sören Sigurdsson._

She'd taken his hands and kissed him, teased him, ridden him to climax again and again, both of them screaming and sobbing and holding each other close as euphoria throbbed through them, then cradling each other as the ecstasy ebbed and they drifted down into sleep.

Now she sat in the light of a pale June dawn, twirling Anthony's card between her fingers, thinking hard.

She heard Gil let himself in around eight. His light dancer's tread sounded in the stairwell, and then there was a gentle knock on her bedroom door.

“Come in.”

He slid into the room, shut the door behind him, and came over to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Good night?” he asked with a mischievous smile.

“Mmm.” Claire stretched, and gave a wicked grin of her own. “What about you? How was Luc?”

Gil laughed softly. “We had fun.”

“I can't believe you're screwing my cousin's boyfriend. I can't believe my cousin's OK with you screwing his boyfriend!”

He shrugged. “It's good to change things up once in a while.” His blue eyes sparkled. “Besides, it isn't the weirdest thing that's happened this year.”

“No.” She leaned back into the nest of pillows. “That's very true. And I may be about to make things even weirder.”

Gil's eyes narrowed. “Is this about Anthony again?”

“Guilty.” She held up the business card – sepia lettering on thick cream paper, printed with the crest of Lincoln's Inn. “Sören won't call him. I was thinking I might.”

Gil exhaled, and then nodded. “OK.”

“OK? That's it? No arguments?”

“Why would I argue? We've been over this before; I don't like what he did, but Sören needs closure. It sounds like they both do.”

“But what if it isn't closure? What if I'm just ripping open a gaping wound for both of them, and it makes everything worse?”

Gil crossed his legs, his head held thoughtfully to one side. “I think that's part of why _you_ need to talk to Anthony. You know what he was like before. You'll be able to see whether he's changed.”

“Will I?” She gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “I'm not so sure. The man I thought I knew wasn't at all like Sören describes him.”

“Or painted him,” Gil added slyly.

Claire blushed. “Thanks, Gil, I really needed reminding of _that_ when I'm going to try and have a serious conversation with the guy.”

“You've seen me naked. What's the difference?”

“You know damn well what the difference is.”

He chuckled and kissed her forehead. “I'm going to make some coffee, and see if I can bribe Theo out of bed.”

“Good luck with that.” Her blush deepened. “Sören and I weren't exactly quiet last night. He might want a lie-in.”

“He doesn't mind so much when Sören's making _him_ scream.”

“Gil!” She groaned, and buried her face in her pillow. “I don't want to think about that either!”

“You're welcome.”

“Piss off.”

After breakfast Gil suggested a trip out to the Parliament Hill Lido for a swim, knowing that Theo would accept and Claire would say no. She smiled at him, grateful to have some privacy for her call with Anthony – though she left it until ten to pick up the phone, not sure what his weekend sleep schedule was like. Anthony struck her as a morning person, but it wouldn't be fair to assume – and the last thing she wanted to do was irritate him, given that he likely wouldn't want to speak to her in the first place.

He answered after one ring. “Anthony Wyatt-Jones.”

His phone manner certainly hadn't changed, she thought wryly. “Anthony, hi, it's Claire James.”

“Oh!” A sharp intake of breath, followed by a pause. Perhaps not surprising; the last time they'd seen each other, she'd been kissing his ex in front of him. “Er. This is...unexpected.”

“I know. Listen, I'm sorry to call out of the blue.”

“No need to apologise.” The suave professional mask was back in place. “How can I help? If it's work-related then I'm not -”

“It isn't work.” Trust him to think of work first thing on a Saturday morning. “This is going to sound a bit odd, but I was actually hoping we could meet somewhere and talk.”

“About?”

“I think you know.”

Another pause. “Does Sören know you've called?”

There it was – the softness she'd been looking for, a wistful waver in his commanding baritone. “No.”

“I see.” And now there was an edge to it, as though he was considering refusing her. “Did you have a time in mind?”

“I'm free all day today and until dinner time tomorrow. Or I can do next weekend, if that suits you better.” She hesitated. “Anthony, please. I know we were never the best of friends, but I promise, I come in peace.”

He gave a reluctant chuckle at that, then exhaled, clearly thinking. “Today is fine; I don't have plans. Are you still living in London?”

“Covent Garden.”

“Ah.” Now _he_ sounded hesitant. “I'm actually staying with my parents in Blackheath. If it isn't too much trouble, could you meet me there?”

“Yes, of course; that's fine.” It was an easy journey – half an hour on an overground service out of Charing Cross – though it seemed a strange request.

“Thanks. I'll give you the address.”

And so Claire found herself in Blackheath on a sun-soaked Saturday, standing opposite a four-storey villa fronted in grey stone. Arched windows stretched the full height of the first floor and smiled over Greenwich Park. Rows of chimney pots nestled on the roof; banks of privet and laurel hugged the perimeter; a goldcrest perched on the gable, its thin whistle piercing the hum of traffic and summer wind.

_It's like something out of _Peter Pan_ – or _Upstairs, Downstairs.

She wasn't sure what she'd expected. Sören hadn't said much about the house; as with everything Anthony, it hurt him to talk about it. She'd always known that Anthony came from money, so the size and location of his family home were no great shock. What startled her was how much it _felt_ like a home. The house watched her approach like a benevolent aunt welcoming a long-missed relation. It felt so unlike the Anthony she'd thought she knew – the Anthony who, last time they met in a professional capacity, had shot her that smug, knowing smile across a conference table, covering her blunder, an amateur's mistake born of stress and misery and exhaustion.

“Don't say I never did anything for you, Claire James,” he'd whispered as they went their separate ways, consultation at an end, her client's case all but sewn up. And she had said nothing.

A few weeks later she'd quit her job; she'd met Gil in the Euston Tap, they'd run away to Canterbury for the weekend, and her life had changed beyond recognition. Her mother, she knew, would far rather she'd stayed in her safe, well-paid role, and eventually settled down with someone like Anthony on the outskirts of London, with a house and two children and a pension pot growing fatter by the week.

_But that isn't me. It never was._

Chips of cream gravel scrunched under her sandals as she crossed the driveway, skirting the lavender bed in the middle. She was relieved that there were no cars parked outside; it would be strange enough to see Anthony again, never mind dealing with his parents. Odd, though, that Anthony's own car wasn't there. The base of her neck prickled as though brushed by a shadow's finger – but she gave an internal shrug. Perhaps he simply hadn't brought it. The house wasn't far from Blackheath Station, after all.

_Here goes._ She climbed the steps up to the front porch and rang the bell. A questioning clang echoed through the house, and Claire pressed her lips together as for a moment she fancied herself a Victorian lady, paying a call on an acquaintance from school. _Don't giggle,_ she scolded herself. She couldn't help wishing that she was indeed a nineteenth-century socialite, educated in the art of small talk. At least then she might know where to begin.

But if she'd had even the vaguest of plans for this conversation, they dissipated as soon as Anthony opened the door.

His classically handsome face was pale – not that he'd ever been tanned, but he looked like he'd barely seen the sun in months – and he was thinner than she remembered. Dark smudges sat under his eyes. A lattice of light, fine scars covered his hands and forearms, and he leaned on a wooden cane.

“Anthony...” She swallowed, struggling to keep the shock and pity off her face. This had to be why he had tried to fend her off about work, why his car wasn't here, why he'd been reluctant to come into busy central London on a Saturday – oh, God, what would Sören say when he found out?

His wary expression softened. “You didn't know.”

She shook her head.

“I'm sorry for the dramatic reveal.” His lips quirked without humour. “I'd have told you on the phone, but I assumed you'd heard. I thought that might be why you called.”

She swallowed. “No.”

Anthony nodded, gave a resigned half-shrug, then stood to one side. “Well. Come in.”

The glass-topped porch opened out into a spacious hallway, with glossed dark wood floors and a sweeping white staircase. Summer sunlight flooded through sash windows and stained glass, and a chandelier – Victorian, if she had to guess – hung from the high ceiling. Plaster flowers edged the crown moulding at the tops of the walls – but most of the décor was strikingly modern. Grey paint. Abstract art. Reclaimed industrial metalwork repurposed as sculptures and wall hangings. “Wow.”

“My mother's pride and joy.” Anthony watched her reaction. “It was falling down when we bought it – not much more than a shell. She restored and redesigned the whole house.”

“It's beautiful.”

“I'll tell her you said so.”

Claire followed him through to a bright, airy reception room with sofas and armchairs scattered around a huge bay window. The doors to the garden were open, but there was a short flight of stairs down on to the patio, and she guessed they wouldn't be going outside.

Anthony saw where she was looking and gave another mirthless smile. “I _can_ handle steps, but I'd rather not if I don't have to. Do you mind being inside?”

“Not at all. I turn into a lobster if I'm in the sun for more than five minutes.”

This time the smile was genuine. “So do I.” He turned to the dresser, which was set with a jug of iced water and an old-fashioned lemonade dispenser. “Can I get you anything? I thought it was too hot for tea, but I can make some if you'd like.”

“Water's fine. Thank you.” It _was_ too hot for tea, but even if it had been the middle of winter, she wouldn't have asked him to make it specially. She accepted the glass he passed her and perched in a blue velvet armchair, out of the direct line of the sun. Anthony eased himself down onto a leather Chesterfield sofa, propping himself carefully upright with cushions and stretching out his left leg, which seemed to be the weaker of the two. Claire tried hard not to gawp. Instead she pretended to interest herself in a bumblebee that was crawling up the window pane.

“You can ask the obvious question, you know.”

She looked back at him, surprised. “Alright. What happened?”

“Have you ever heard of a footballer named Justin Roberts?”

She had; it had been all over the news, though in the worry over Theo it had mostly passed her by. “The one who died in the car crash...” Anthony's eyes darkened, and Claire winced. “Oh, God. You were the other driver.”

“I can tell you're not a football fan. The police protected my identity at first, but it wasn't long before a certain cohort of England supporters found it out. That's partly why I'm living here; I was getting bricks through the front window of my flat in Kingston.”

Claire hissed like a wounded cat. “_Orcs._”

Anthony's eyes widened, apparently surprised by her vehemence – and then came the courtroom smile, dangerous, utterly without emotion. “That wasn't the word I used.”

“I'll bet.” She bit her lip. “How bad is it?”

“Most of the scars will fade, and the ones that won't are easily covered. The spinal contusion, probably not. I'll be able to walk better than I can now – at least, I hope so – but it's likely I'll need a cane for the rest of my life.”

“Anthony, I'm so sorry.”

“Don't you pity me, Claire James.” His voice was blade-sharp. “I get enough of that from my mother.”

She nodded an acknowledgement.

Anthony watched her, as thoughtful as he'd ever been in a classroom, or behind a consulting desk, or in court. “So. What are you doing these days? Are you still with Marquis and Harman?”

Work. A safer topic. Setting the scene before launching into opening arguments. “Well...no, actually.”

“I can't say I'm surprised. I never thought they'd be a good fit for you.” He tilted his head. “And you can't be back at Brick Court; I'd have heard about that.”

“I...er.” She hated admitting this to Anthony, of all people – even now, even knowing it had been the right thing to do. “I quit.”

Anthony's eyebrows lifted. “Completely?”

“Totally and utterly. I work as an archivist at the Royal Opera House now.” _And help out in the gift shop,_ she added mentally. But she certainly wasn't sharing _that_ with Anthony, not yet.

“An archivist.”

“Yes,” she said defensively. _If you make fun of me, Anthony Wyatt-Jones, I swear..._ “I'm studying for a Masters degree in the evenings, too.”

“Congratulations.”

She blinked. “Sorry?”

He smiled coolly. “I never understood why you went for the Commercial Bar in the first place. I could have seen you at the Family Bar, or working for the Crown Prosecution. Even Chancery would have made more sense, but Commercial...”

“If I'd gone for Crown Prosecution I'd have had to face you.”

Anthony folded his arms. “You know, I wouldn't exactly have been in a hurry to go up against _you._”

Claire managed to swallow her drink without coughing. “You're joking.”

“I'm not. When we were at college, your work ethic used to frighten me. You knew everything.”

“I definitely didn't.”

“It was like you'd swallowed the textbook.” His green eyes were amused and admiring. “All that detail, just there in your head.”

Her cheeks heated. It was true that she'd worked hard for her diploma – and the aptitude tests, and the bar training course. It had been terrifying and exulting to realise just how little sleep she needed, how easy it was to push through colds and viruses and period cramps when a deadline burned at her back. Clawed hands dragged on her lungs at the memory. How hard she'd been – and how brittle! So many times she'd almost broken, but pushed grimly on, determined not to give up.

Anthony watched. She saw the conclusions being drawn behind his eyes, the way he noted and gauged her body language. “What tipped you?” he asked.

“I don't know, really.” She did. That bastard in Manchester, pushing for secrets that weren't hers to give – but she wasn't telling Anthony that, either.

“And you don't think you'll go back to it? Not even a different branch of law?”

“No.”

He nodded slowly. “It's a shame.”

“Is it?”

“You were a terrific lawyer.”

“Thank you.” She watched him for tells, but the compliment seemed genuine. “I'm not sure, though. I definitely couldn't do what you do.”

“Someone has to.” His smile grew cryptic, and he looked out of the bay window. Wisteria and clematis climbed a trellised walkway, and chives and sage leaves spilled from faded red pots. A butterfly flitted towards the doorway before weaving back out again and landing on the lavender. “It chews you up and spits you out, doesn't it?”

“Yes. Yes, it does.” For the first time she wondered whether something like her own burnout had lain behind how Anthony treated Sören at the end. It didn't excuse cheating, of course, but she knew what it was to be exhausted and lonely, for judgement and common sense to vanish into a black, apathetic pit.

“But you're happier now?”

She nodded. _He even sounds like he cares._

“I'm glad.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” It was out of her mouth before she could stop it – but luckily Anthony didn't seem offended.

“I was always nice.” His mouth curled a little at the corner. “You were just determined not to like me.” He leaned back in his chair, green eyes curious. “What did I ever do to you, Claire James?”

Despite the state he was in, irritation flared in her gut – an instinctive reaction that threw her back into memories of their college days like a rag doll flung against a pile of bricks. “Called me that, for a start.”

“Called you what? Your name?”

“My full name.”

Anthony's eyebrows lifted again, and this time he was trying not to laugh. “It was how you always introduced yourself. You were so _earnest_ \- even on the first day at college, you went up to everyone and shook their hand and said, 'Hi, I'm Claire James.' No-one else did that. It was funny – and really quite sweet.”

“I wasn't even twenty-one! I was terrified, I'd never been in an environment like that in my life; how the hell was I supposed to know how to behave? And you kept saying it, and you called me it in front of clients, and -”

“I didn't know it bothered you.” A crease appeared between his eyebrows. “I'm sorry. I'd have stopped, if I'd realised.”

The sincerity of it disarmed her – but only for a moment. “And you _smirked_ at me when I said I was going to Brick Court. Like you thought I couldn't possibly belong there.”

“I didn't smirk.”

“You did.”

“Like I said, I was surprised. Commercial law didn't seem like the obvious fit for you. I always thought you'd be more interested in the human side – justice for the downtrodden, and all that.” The pitch of his voice dropped, as though he thought he might startle her away. “If you must know, I was worried about you.”

“You? Worried?” She snorted. “About me?”

“Even when we were taking the diploma, I knew you were working too hard. I didn't think the Commercial Bar would be good for you.”

Claire gaped. “You never said anything.”

“Would you have listened?”

“No,” she admitted.

“I knew you didn't like me – and that was fine. Not many people did, or do. You think I haven't heard that they call me the Shark?” The sunlight shifted, and for a moment his carved, even features were cold and distant. “Reputations are useful. If people are scared about facing me, then good. I can use it.” He smiled, and for half an instant regret flickered in his eyes. “But I liked you, Claire. You had far more heart than most of them. I suppose, even though we weren't friends, I wanted you to go a different way.”

Claire turned her water glass between her fingers, thinking back to the incident she'd remembered earlier, when Anthony had covered her mistake in front of her client during the fraud case he'd been asked to consult on. _Had_ he done it to undermine her, and show off? Or had he seen she was struggling, and simply thrown her a lifeline?

_“Don't say I never did anything for you, Claire James.”_

The words still stung.

“It's finished now, anyway.” She looked up, watching Anthony as carefully as he watched her. “And I think we both know I'm not here to talk shop.”

Anthony blinked and looked away, taking a careful breath. “Yes.”

Claire didn't need to be a trained barrister to see she'd hit home – and she hadn't even said the name yet. Cool, collected, courtroom Anthony was gone; he'd turned his face away, but she'd seen the tears start, and Anthony knew it. _Go gently, but be direct._ “Anthony, please, please understand – this isn't something I'm asking you lightly, but I think you need to speak to Sören. I know what you did,” she added before he could protest, “and I won't pretend I'm not angry about that. But I hate seeing people I love unhappy, and that's exactly what Sören is right now.”

There was a bitter edge to Anthony's smile as he met her eyes. “He seemed pretty happy in February, when I saw him in that café with you and the older guy.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake...you're a barrister, and a bloody good one at that. I know you can tell when someone's acting.”

“Acting or not, his answer was still no.” Anthony swallowed. “I have to respect that – and so should you.”

_Don't you tell me what I should and shouldn't do, you arrogant, over-privileged..._ Claire breathed in slowly, easing away her instinctive response, forcing calm through her body the same way she had through countless court cases over the years. “Sören and I have spoken about it since. It's not such a hard no as you might think.”

Something flared in the green eyes, warm and almost hopeful, before the handsome face closed down again. “Then why isn't he here now?”

“Pride – at least in part. He won't beg; this is going to have to start with you.”

“I've tried, Claire. More than once. And you were there the last time; you saw how it turned out.” His mouth tightened. “You'd be better off persuading him to move on, if you really don't think he has. I'm sure you're quite capable of making him happy.”

“Tell me one more time how I should handle my relationship, Anthony Wyatt-Jones, and I'm walking out of that door.”

Anthony blinked – and then a slow, deep smile curved his lips. “Well. _That's_ the Claire I remember.”

“I mean it.” She wasn't entirely sure that she did, but she looked him in the eye and shot steel through her voice. “Sören and I have an open relationship, and we have had since the beginning. He sees other people. I'm fine with that. I'm also fine with one of those people being you, _if _you pull your head out of your arse, and _if_ that's what Sören wants.” _Good grief, girl, what happened to gentle?_ She softened her tone. “And I'm pretty sure it is, otherwise I wouldn't be sitting in front of you.”

The goldcrest that had sat on the gable at the front now landed on the patio, chirping an atonal melody. The hiss of sprinklers drifted from next door's garden, along with children's shrieks. Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly thinking.

“What exactly did Sören say?” he asked.

Claire exhaled, relieved. _Phase Two – though this is going to hurt._ “He said you'd need to show him that you'd rethought your life and priorities.” She didn't add that Sören had doubted whether Anthony was capable of that. It seemed neither fair nor necessary.

Anthony swallowed again; the smile he managed to summon was fragile. “Well. Things have certainly changed.”

Her irritation dissipated, and for the first time she felt the urge to cross the room and take him in her arms, the way she sometimes did with Gil, or Harrison, or Theo – but she sat still. She didn't know him nearly well enough; she had no idea how he'd react to it. “I won't argue with that.”

“Would he even want me now?” Anthony gestured at his cane. “Like this?”

Claire snorted. “We're talking about the same person, right? It's _Sören_, for crying out loud. He loves so fiercely, so generously – well, you know that. It's like a flame, like wildfire, consuming you and protecting you all at once...” She tailed off, feeling heat rise in her cheeks again.

Anthony simply nodded. “Yes.”

She looked at him carefully, weighing her next words, deciding she could probably risk a little levity. “Besides, he probably has a kink for it.”

For a moment Anthony just stared at her – then a deep chuckle sounded in his chest, building into genuine laughter. “Oh, God.” The tears he wiped from his eyes this time had nothing to do with grief and regret. “He really has corrupted you, hasn't he?”

She shrugged and gave a demure smile. “I was corrupt already.”

“Claire...thank you.” He leaned back against the cushions, all pretence at the courtroom veneer now dropped. Feeling similarly relaxed, Claire kicked off her sandals and curled up in her chair. “I don't think I could have laughed about it even six weeks ago.” His smile faded, and he shivered. “In fact, when I woke up after the crash, I thought maybe I'd have been better off dead. And I hated myself for thinking that.”

“It's understandable.” She did reach out to him this time, extending her right hand over the arm of her chair. He took it, squeezed it gently. “I've been there.”

Anthony nodded slowly. “I did wonder.”

_Of course you did._ She held his gaze. _Nothing gets past you, does it?_

With a sigh, Anthony let go of her hand. “I fucked up royally, though.”

“Yes, you did. But everyone makes mistakes.” She bit her lip. “If it had been a pattern of behaviour, this would be a different conversation. I doubt we'd even be _having_ a conversation.” Slowly, she breathed in, knowing her next words would be a gamble. “But Sören's told me what your relationship was like – the way you looked after each other, the things you did for him. And I know what I've seen here today. Anthony, I know you're in love with him.” There it was – the final blow, the last card played, her final roll of the dice. She watched as Anthony winced and covered his mouth, pulling his eyes from hers. Ruthless, she pressed on. “It's no use looking away. You're only confirming it. You've probably loved him since the day you laid eyes on him, just like I did, and having him gone from your life is like having a piece of your soul ripped away. If I didn't think he loved you too, I'd have left you in peace. But he _does._ This is still fixable.”

“How?” He kept his eyes fixed on the bay window, but the shudder in his voice told her everything. “He'd never trust me again.”

“It'd take time,” she admitted. “And it wouldn't be easy. Even if you did work things out, I can't promise it would be the same.”

“No. Of course.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes. “Jesus...”

Claire hesitated for a moment, then reached into her handbag and passed him a tissue.

Anthony chuckled. “Thanks. You know, I think you'd get on with my Mum.”

“Actually, I've met her.” Claire smiled. “And I agree. She seems lovely.”

“She is, but..._what?_ How did you meet her?”

Claire relayed the incident in the gift shop, now less self-conscious about telling Anthony how she supplemented her income. He didn't comment, but he shook his head in disbelief that his mother had been so brazen.

“My God. That's even worse than she made it sound.”

“She just wants you to be happy. And Sören.”

“Yes.” The curve of his mouth was wistful now. “She always loved Sören.”

“It's a pretty common affliction.”

Anthony laughed again. “How do you make it work? You, and the older guy, and him? The hours he puts in at the hospital...”

“We manage. We talk to each other. We're honest. You know, like adults.” She couldn't quite resist a last dig. “But we all look out for each other; Nicholas is like a father to me, and to...” Her stomach fluttered; they hadn't mentioned Gil yet. She paused – and Anthony's barrister instincts kicked in.

“To you, and...?” he prompted.

“Er.” She laughed, and ran a hand through her hair. “OK, in the interest of full disclosure, it isn't just me and Nicholas. There's Gil too – and Theo, at the moment, though that's a bit different.”

Anthony shook his head again, looking faintly dazed. “Wow. I knew he was insatiable, but..._wow._”

“Insatiable's the word.” She got up to pour them both another drink, and passed one back to him. “Is it a problem?”

“It might have been once,” he replied honestly. “But if this is what he needs – if this is the way it has to work...then no. It isn't.”

“Good. That's what I needed to hear.”

She curled into the chair again. Creamy sunlight dappled the floor, dancing through the hedgerow and the curling stems of wisteria in the arbour. Anthony sipped his glass of lemonade, his cheeks turning the colour of the climbing blossoms outside.

“What is it?” Claire asked.

“Er. This might seem a strange question, but...” The pink in his cheeks deepened. “You and the others – do you...?”

“Do we share Sören?” she grinned.

“Yes.”

“Gil and I do, sometimes, but otherwise no. We don't come as a package deal, if that's what you're worried about.” She flashed him the same wicked smile she'd given Gil that morning. “Unless you want us to.”

“I'm gay, Claire.” Anthony was laughing, though his cheeks looked like they could set the upholstery on fire. “Very gay.”

“Yes, I think I'd got there.” She decided that now was definitely not the time to mention that she'd seen Sören's paintings of the two of them, naked and debauched and utterly besotted with one another. “It's alright; I'm only teasing.”

“I can't believe I'm having this conversation. Any of it.” Looking genuinely curious now, he asked, “Do _you_ see other people?”

“Not at the moment.” In truth it hadn't really occurred to her; she didn't feel like she was missing anything, even with Sören now living with Nicholas. “But never say never.”

He nodded, his smile fading again.

“_Now_ what?” Claire sighed.

“My learned friend has neglected to address a significant and obvious flaw in her case.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Plain English, please, Anthony; we aren't in court.”

“Sören isn't likely to answer a call from me, or to stay on the line if he does. He certainly wouldn't answer an email.”

“No,” she agreed. “You're probably right.”

“And I can hardly go and camp outside the National and hope I bump into him.”

“Who said anything about camping?” She set her drink down on a nearby coffee table, reached for her bag and paused. “I don't mean this to sound patronising, but how are you for getting around in public?”

“Better than I was. I lose my nerve a little in crowds, and public transport is a no-go – but I can always take a cab.” He tilted his head. “What did you have in mind?”

Claire opened her handbag and produced a folded piece of lined paper. “Here.”

Anthony took it, frowning. “What's this?”

“Sören's shift patterns for the next fortnight, complete with scheduled breaks. The hospital's got a new café since you last spent much time there.” With an air of innocence, she added, “Sören likes their chocolate espressos. With whipped cream on top.”

A slow, disbelieving smile spread across Anthony's features. “You scheming minx.”

She laughed. “Don't say I never did anything for you, Anthony Wyatt-Jones.”

* * *

Sunlight spilled berry-red over Greenwich Park as day faded into dusk. Tomorrow was the solstice, and the air tasted of magic and ancient fire. A time of life, and joy, and blood, and defiance. A time for rebirth.

Vanimórë closed his book – an attractive hardback edition of Goethe, purchased from the Blackheath book shop that in a different world was owned by another Claire James – and got to his feet. A cooling wind whispered over the heath. Under a twisted sweet chestnut tree, a group of youths bellowed tunelessly along to their radio, tipsy voices sliding through the notes of a guitar-led summer anthem. They called for him to join them, but he smiled and shook his head and walked on.

He paused in front of an old Victorian villa – beautifully restored now, thanks to the care and imagination of Elaine Wyatt-Jones. He'd watched earlier as Claire had stood in the front porch with Anthony, and smiled at their tentative kiss on the cheek as they said goodbye. Now Anthony walked the driveway with his father, Roger, watering the plants, leaning on his cane.

_I am sorry for thy pain, beauty – but the alternative was far, far worse._

Anthony's head lifted, the evening shadows sharp under his chiselled cheekbones. Vanimórë slid back into the cover of the hedgerows and trees, but not before he'd seen the glimmer of truth under the mortal skin Anthony wore – the flood of silver-gold hair to the knees; the heart that burned like high noon in spring; the piercing, thoughtful eyes of Finwë's youngest son.

_Farewell for now, my dear._ He blew a silent kiss into the night as Anthony shook himself and returned to his task. _The sun will shine on thee again soon._


End file.
